A Study in Fear
by thatisanicecoat
Summary: A psychological landscape: Xena and Gabrielle contemplate their relationship and what it might mean to love.
1. Chapter 1

A Study in Fear

jenn amell

Why should I blame her that she filled my days

With misery, or that she would of late

Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways

Or hurled the little streets upon the great,

Had they but courage equal to desire?

What could have made her peaceful with a mind

That nobleness made simple as a fire,  
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind

That is not natural in an age like this,

Being high and solitary and most stern?

Why, what could she have done being what she is?

Was there another Troy for her to burn?

W.B. Yeats, "No Second Troy"

I have never felt fear as others describe it to me. When I was a child in Amphipolis, I would kill birds, rats, snakes, anything I could catch. I would set their limp bodies on the flats of rocks, watch as the Grecian sun dried their insides, turned them brittle as talcum. The kill itself was satiating, but the moment after the kill was what interested me. I was obsessed with the control, the absolute domination that became mine in that moment. It is the closest to the power of a god one can ever get.

Lyceus would pit me against the older boys in town, laugh as they ran away at my level stare. My brother liked to see how far he could push me: Jump across that river, wrestle that bull, steal that sword, walk on those coals, sneak out after Mother goes to sleep. I would do anything; I feared nothing. And my recent history as a ruthless warlord fits nicely with what my childhood activities cultivated: Inability to sympathize, coldness, calculation, that is what is expected of me. And now...

I have weakened myself, I am aware. I _do _feel fear in the old, high way. I have something to lose, something to love and lose: Gabrielle. When I look at her, I feel this clenching in my heart. And I have felt desire—many times—for power, for bodily satisfaction, for weapons, for ships, for armies. Marcus and I were two such lost ships, desiring redemption, finding it in each other. He is gone now. Antony almost had me fooled; I had a moment's hesitation before I thrust my sword into his chest. In Antony, I was killing a tyrant, killing my desire.

And yet, that young bard from Potidea is my undoing. If one were to tell me a slight, blonde-haired poet would catalyze such a change in me—that I would save children, spare lives, that I would be a proponent of the greater good, that I would love... Well, I would have laughed in their face and, most likely, cut off their head.

Gabrielle scares me more than looking Mephistopholes in the eye. And I have, it's unsettling. She is the only entity I have ever feared because I could not hurt her if I tried, could not fight her, could not seduce her, and certainly could not kill her if she turned on me. She holds my entire existence in one small, smooth palm. One gesture from Gabrielle can bring Xena, Warrior Princess, Destroyer of Nations to her knees.

I think about these things more often now, than ever before. Now, I sit by the campfire, sharpening my sword, getting lost in the sound of stone against metal. Gabrielle is tucked into her bedroll, leaning against a tree, scribbling furiously on her scrolls. She pauses a moment, touches the feather quill to her chin, contemplates those beautiful words that swim around her mind. Suddenly, she looks up at me and I rapidly avert my eyes, my heart beating wildly beneath my breastplate. I can feel her stare on me, but when I chance another look, she seems to have found that perfect word that had eluded her and I see the top of the feather flick back and forth once more.

I am not sure when the realization came to me. It was gradual, like a river rising over a rock in a light rain. There is a moment, however, when the rock becomes totally submerged. That is how I felt that day when Gabrielle lay motionless in that temple, on a stone table; I felt like I was drowning. A moment of panic when you know your lifebreath is stolen away. I had screamed, pounded on her chest, roughly pleaded with her to breathe, to fight. And, I realized then when her eyes snapped open and she took that gasping first breath, when I held her to me like she was my own heart thudding in my arms, that I had loved her forever. It seemed like a rebirth; she and I were so gloriously, complexly alive.

In the less drastic moments of our time together, however, I find our relationship to be growing ever more confusing. I desire her love, and in some overarching principle of fate, I know I have it. I burn with love for her as I had previously burned with hate for all. As this flame laps at my insides, stirs something deep within me, I must seek a medium with which to express it... and I have never been a woman of words, but of action. I feel that familiar pooling in the pit of my stomach, but it runs deeper than ever before. It is so far buried within me that I cannot reach to grasp it, control it, manipulate it. But, I have no wish to anyway. I am at a constant simmer, seeking touch and sensation and ultimate fulfillment. This is a need, something which scares me further. With time, with gentle touches, reverant looks, careful words, I have found that loving Gabrielle—completely-will come as natural to me as fighting, as breathing.

"What are you thinking about, Xena?" Her voice draws me achingly into the present.

"The past," I answer evasively. I watch as Gabrielle removes the doeskin blanket from her legs, gets up and walks over to me.

"What about the past?" she says, taking a seat next to me on a log. She picks up a stick from the ground and prods the embers in the fire. The tip of the stick grows red, glowing. I imagine my heart and am struck by the similarity between the two burning objects.

"Childhood. Lyceus. The years between then and now. How much I have changed. How much you have changed."

"Me?" Gabrielle looks up at me then, trying to register my shifting eyes, what their movement might mean. She has gotten incredibly good at reading me.

"Yes. You're not the girl I met in Potidea all those years ago."

"I'm not? I hope this is not a criticism, Xena. Because you have-"

"Now, you're a woman. A good fighter. An exceptionally gifted storyteller. A self-sacrificing, courageous and loyal friend. Gabrielle, I could not ask for more in any god or person. I love you dearly, I hope you know that." My throat aches, my teeth clench. I refuse to allow any physical manisfestation of how much I really meant what I said. She has yet to smile, say anything.

"Okay," Gabrielle breathes, "Where's the eminent danger? Are you planning another suicide mission or something?"

"What? No." And I wasn't. Now was one of those rare times between death-defying missions where Gabrielle and I were waiting for some warlord to try to seize a town, for someone to appear on the horizon desperate for our help. "That's just what I was thinking about." I attempt a smile, falter, avert my eyes to the fire. I run the whetstone across my blade once more. Suddenly, I feel two arms seize around my shoulders, two lips at my temple.

"Oh, Xena..." sighs Gabrielle, close to my ear. I move from her touch, grimace, continue to sharpen my sword. I fear her touch; I find my body wanting to act of its own accord and respond.


	2. Chapter 2

**II.**

She says, "But in contentment I still feel

The need of some imperishable bliss."

Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,

Alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams

And our desires. Although she strews the leaves

Of sure obliteration on our paths,

The path sick sorrow took, the many paths

Where triumph sang its brassy phrase, or love

Whispered a little out of tenderness,

She makes the willow shiver in the sun.

We live in an old chaos of the sun,

Or old dependency of day and night,

Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,

Of that wide water, inescapable.

At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make

Ambiguous undulations as they sink,

Downward to darkness, on extended wings.

**Wallace Stevens, **_**Sunday Morning**_

I know she fears me. Well, maybe not my skill with a sword, but what I represent. Xena obsesses over a redemption she will never allow herself. Death will only claim her entire satisfaction. I fear one day it will come to that and she will leave me. But, I have desperately attempted to posit myself into this role: I am willing to be her redemption. I love her wholly, without fail; she knows this, fears this. She wants some part of me to hate her. But I do not. I cannot. I could never.

Xena loves me too, yet I know I will never have all of her. I used to fear her darkness, use to treat it like some gangrened extremity that needed to be sawed off. The warrior is split in two: That bestial part of her, that glint in her eye as she is about to draw blood in battle, shies in shadows from the light she thinks she sees in me. But the other-the part striving so hard, treading so carefully on the narrow tightrope of that which is good-uses my youth, my innocence as a guiding force. This is what she loves in me, and she is terrified of corrupting it. Because, then, she'd be in the darkness once again. I have tried to explain to her my faults, my sins, my own lusts, but Xena will not hear if she chooses not to listen. As long as she continues to deny the corrupt parts of me-that which makes me human-she will never truly love me.

She moved from my touch tonight. I have noticed this recently. Yes, of course in the beginning when we first started traveling together, Xena wasn't used to the idea of a hug, a reassuring squeeze of the hand. Then, she would flinch at my nearness. But it's been years. Years of cold nights, wrapped up in each other under blankets, under strange-eyed constellations. Years of embraces through deaths, triumphs, and failures. Years of day to day contact that only time could cultivate. But, now, after everything we've been through, she pulls away. Again. She's brought back that hesitancy, the nervous gestures of that naive girl from Potadeia I once was.

Now, I honestly do not know what to make of it. Is she repulsed by me? Does she finally detect the evil in me, the evil that exists in all of us? If she does, she has to have made one of two decisions: Either she allows herself to succumb to me, to us. Or she extracts the tendrils of our intertwining souls, and this is the end. If the latter, I will be cast away like every other to pledge their love, their devotion to Xena: Warrior Princess.

This evening, I could feel her eyes on me as I wrote on my scrolls. It was strange, curious even. When Xena settles down to sharpen her sword, she sheds the hardships of the day. It is her practice that becomes something meditative and singular. So, for her to be paying me any kind of attention is a statement, and a distressing one at that. When I could not stand it any longer, I looked up and caught the rapid removal of her stare. I allowed her a moment more before my curiosity, my fear even, got the better of me.

When she admitted that she had been thinking about me, I feigned surprise. She attempts to sooth me with compliments: She says I'm a woman. A good fighter. A storyteller. Self-sacrificing, courageous, loyal. She even ventures to utter love in my direction. But these are words. She misses the point... again. I don't want her half-thoughts. I want her to see me. I want her to touch me. Hate me completely, rather than love me in part! This is my rage. How can I mask this overriding frustration? I respond with a joke, then see the smile that dies just before reaching her eyes.

"That's just what I was thinking about," she says, shrugging. Liar! Coward. I thrust my arms around her shoulders, pull her roughly toward me and kiss the downy hair at her temple. I am inches, mere inches, from where I really want to be. And when I feel the twitch of discomfort in her, I pull away. I can't stand this.

"I'm going to take a bath in the river," I say, abruptly. Xena looks down at me, the whetstone paused mid-blade.

"It's dark."

"I'm aware."

"I'll come with you-"

"Please stay."

Xena looks away, visibly stiffens.

"I'm sorry," I say, "I just want to be alone for a while." She nods and I turn away. I grab my satchel and continue across the campsite into the darker trees, cast in deeper shadow by the firelight. I hear the stone against metal once more; the sound follows me to the river.

Once stripped of my clothes on the bank of river, I take a moment to still myself. The night is crisp, telling of autumn. I can see the faint condensation of my breath on the air. And with a small gust of wind against my bare skin, my body is wracked with sobs. It's one of those guttural cries where air can't quite escape and you're left gulping, shaking. I cover my mouth with my hand and wrap the other arm around my midsection. The sound of my own voice frightens me: "Why can she not understand?"

Slowing my heaves, catching only the coattails of my breath, I take the steps down the embankment and wade into the gentle current. The water is warmer that I thought: it calms my body and I slowly submerge myself. When I resurface, I have control again. Even my anger has receded a little. As I make my way back up the embankment, I catch a movement in the peripheral foliage. I slowly bend down and pick up a large rock, my eyes alert.

"Who's there?" I demand. I hear a rustle and I bring the rock up, ready to strike. Then, I see the familiar outline of a figure.

"It's only me, Gabrielle," came the silvery voice of Xena. Instead of a relieved breath, I brandish the rock higher.

"Xena, what part of alone don't you understand?"

"I was just worried. Gabrielle, is something the matter?"

"I don't believe it! Were you spying on me?" My anger has returned, rearing its lion head with more force than it had before. I stumble on the uneven terrain of the river bed and struggle up the bank to where Xena is standing. She is between me and my clothes which lay in a pile on a tree stump.

"No. I don't have to be Athena to figure out something is bothering you."

"Ah, but you may need the goddess of wisdom to figure out the reason," I spat. I take a step to move past her, but her well-trained reflexes catch my shoulders in both hands. Her touch only fans the flame licking its way up my insides. _This is crazy_, my sanity begs.

"Not if you tell me what's going on..." Xena says. I catch the faintest note of desperation in her normally even voice. I bring a hand up to my mouth, trying to hold in the cry of frustration.

"Let me put on my clothes," comes my grated voice.

"No, not until you tell me what it is I did to you. If I'm not mistaken, we had a pleasant conversation just recently, back at camp-"

"We did. It was pleasant. Thank you for deigning to compliment me."

Xena drew closer, seeking an answer in my eyes. "Did Ares tell you something?" Her hands were gripping me roughly; my skin pinched where her fingernails met my shoulder. I push my weight into her hands, willing her to grip to me harder.

"Ares? You think this is about Ares?" My voice is high, incredulous. Xena smiles, but it is vicious, a smile she reserves for battle.

"A shot in the dark, Gabrielle. Listen, are you bleeding this week per chance?" she laughs. I lunge at her, throwing her off balance and back-first into the trunk of a tree. I stalk over to my clothes and hastily pull my tunic over my head.

"Fine. You want to talk about Ares? Okay, we'll talk about him," I begin, shoving my feet into my boots, leaving them unlaced. "In Amphipolis, all those years ago when Athena was trying to kill Eve, I watched you in that temple with the god of war. Oh yes, I saw the look on your face. How could you look at him like that? A man responsible for most of the suffering of humankind, who manipulates and destructs for his own conniving benefit, a man who delights in evil, who wanted to kill you daughter, who only abstained so he could _rape_ a lineage out of you! How can you look at that man, continue to look at him like that, when I..." I abruptly stop speaking, knowing that I have said too much. Xena looks awestruck, but nevertheless steps toward me.

She allows a moment of silence, then "When you... what?". She moves closer still, edging slightly to the left, like I've seen her do thousands of times when cornering an opponent. Her dark hair is hanging limply, her bangs casting shadows over the brilliant blue of her eyes. Her mouth is a straight line. I look her level in the eye, my lips trembling.

"When I would _kill_ for you to look at me like that," I answer.


	3. Chapter 3

***This chapter contains paraphrased references to Sun Tzu's, **_**The Art of War. **_

**III.**

I do not know which to prefer-

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after.

**Wallace Stevens, **_**Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird**_

I have never been made more aware of the features on my face, or the implications of how I arrange such features in an expression, than now. When I arch a brow, press my lips together or bite the bottom, or allow the planes of my face to align into a smile or a frown, or let my eyelids drop lower and welcome the natural shadow to deepen- when I do any of this, what do people see? Fear, mostly; many shrink under any arrangement of my features. But I've never thought on it, not until now.

I allowed Gabrielle a solid amount of time before I followed her down to the river. I knew something was wrong, could sense the imbalance of thought and sentiment in her rough handling of our earlier conversation. I could not, however, fathom the reason. She had been acting strangely for weeks now: Where she was usually excitable and talkative, she was now distant and reticent to discuss anything irrelevant to the logistics of some mission or other. Not that I'm one for small talk... but, it just wasn't her. I figured Gabrielle would tell me if these thoughts became too much of a burden or when she forged a path through them. But, she hadn't. And I let it sit and fester and mutate.

It genuinely surprised me that Gabrielle would keep a secret from me at all. I was so used to having her drag information or discussion of 'feelings' from my unrelenting lips. And I was used to Gabrielle sharing each thought aloud as it passed through her consciousness; she, chattering away, walking next to Argo, me sitting contemplatively in the saddle. This was a typical scene. I used to joke that Gabrielle didn't conceive thoughts in her mind, but in her mouth.

All very well, but where does that leave me now? It leaves me knowing that she is upset over gods know what and not having done anything about it or even acknowledging her odd behavior. What a terrible friend I am... And that's when I made the decision to follow her, even though she said she wanted to be alone. Surely, she would answer me if I deigned to ask.

I walked with my usual stealth down to the river, arriving at the pile of cloth and unlaced boots near the stump of a tree. From the thicket, I could see the faint circular ripple on the surface of the water where Gabrielle had gone under. In another breath, the top of her head emerged, hair appearing darker when damp, then the shadow of her face, half-lit by the reflection of the moon on the water, a slender neck, two shoulders, the curve of her breasts, her hips, the iridescent four flat planes that convened at her abdomen, the small crescent shadow of her navel- I step on a branch to warn her of my presence, lest she think me spying.

I wince at her reaction; she reaches down with athletic dexterity to pick up a fair-sized rock from the riverbed. She positions the rock at ear-level, elbow joint at an acute angle to deliver a deadly blow to the intruder. I have done this; I have done this to her. I have inspired that elementary response in her; we're always in the heart of darkness. And suddenly, I realize that the intruder is me.

I announce myself and am perplexed to see that Gabrielle does not seem to relax. We exchange a few words; I find myself growing angrier yet more confused. Anything out of the ordinary with her I attribute to practical reasons such as mood swings, unsettling events that occur, meddling gods like Ares, what I did or did not do, some humanitarian cause that she adopts and lets tug on her thin heartstrings... But, it was none of these things. Now lets collect the facts here: I know Gabrielle is angry. Her anger is directed toward me. How long has she been angry? Well, that I've noticed. Three, maybe four weeks? Where were we two fortnights ago? Egypt. Antony. Was this jealousy? Has to be. Gabrielle has always had this complex. Once, in our early days of travel together, she had bemoaned the lack of men in her life:

_"You always get the good-looking ones don't you?"_

_ "What do you mean?"_

_ "I'm just saying... why go for the short, scrawny one stumbling over her own scrolls, when there's the tall, beautiful, raven-haired one doing backflips and wielding weapons with the skill of ten men?"_

_ "Gabrielle... raven-haired?"_

_ "I'm a bard," she deadpanned, smacking the back of her hand playfully against my breastplate, "You're the warrior princess."_

But now she's talking about Ares and I find myself regaining my balance after receiving not a gentle push against a tree. Okay, I should actually listen to what she is saying. Then again, Gabrielle has the tendency to say one thing and have it stand in for a thousand other things at once. Such is the way with poets. She calls Ares evil. No disagreements there. Rape? Now, that's a little harsh a word. I nearly had the man begging on his knees; a smirk threatens loose on my mouth. It wasn't for pleasure, it was business, part of the plan. Gabrielle knew that-

"How can you look at that man, continue to look at him like that, when I..."

I catch the sudden reference to herself like a thunderbolt in Zeus' hand. I know what she was going to say, can even utter it before she gets the chance to form the words on the tip of her tongue. But I want to hear her say it, like I long for victory in a battle.

_Always find your opponent's weakness; expose it_.

I take a step closer.

_All warfare is an act of deception._

"When you... what?" My voice is low.

_At a narrow pass, in a valley, we are at an advantage. If the opponent is at a precipitous height, assess if it is heavily garrisoned. _

"When I would _kill_ for you to look at me like that."

_If heavily garrisoned, pull a full retreat; a narrow pass can never win against a precipitous height._

But I was never one to accept defeat.

I advance on Gabrielle, putting one hand on her waist, and move her a few steps backward with my momentum. With the other arm I cushion the force of her back as it contacts the trunk of a nearby tree. The canopy of leaves directly above us on the saplings must have been discovered by insects; a shaft of moonlight pores through and bathes the west side of the tree in a pale grayness. Without much thought, I place my hand on the outer side of her right leg, just above the knee. Her skin is chilled from the water, but taut, muscular, yet soft. Never have I been so deliberate in touching her. My eyes search out hers, having no idea what I'll find there. Actually, I have trouble determining just what colour her eyes are. Some days they look green, others blue. Now, they are in shadow.

Only my hand traveling swiftly down her leg-to grip behind the knee, to drag it upward and rest it achingly against my hip-is illuminated by the moonlight. That and the sliver of Gabrielle's shoulder and a triangular patch directly at the base of her neck, at the pulse point. It beats rapidly. I move my head further into the shadows; I can feel her breath near my chin. I can make out the shape of her lips in the darkness, can smell her familiar scent, the scent that seeps into my leathers when she does the laundry and how it makes me feel like I'm home.

"Is this what you want?" There is such defeat in my voice; I am unable to mask it. She barely breathes. "Because, this, Gabrielle... this is a facade; this is deception. And you are worth more than that." Abruptly, I release my hold on her, turn and back through the thicket to the path that leads back to camp.


	4. Chapter 4

**IV.**

Δεν ήμουν. Είμαι. Ήμουν. Δεν είμαι.

_**I was not. I am. I was. I am not.**_

Faulkner, _The Sound And The Fury_

I was absent of feeling. Everything was compartmentalized and regeneration began in parts; I no longer knew if I would ever be emotionally whole again. My acute world was confined to the rough feel of the bark at my back, the burning of my skin where her hand had been only moments before. Was it moments? Could have been hours. I no longer had any conception of time. Slowly, I began to regain breath and with my breathing, I regained control of my body. And then the anger.

Again. She did it again.

How dare she belittle me. It had taken every ounce of courage I had to complete that sentence, to take ownership of my sentiments, to not succumb to the embarrassment of my folly. Xena can tear the throne of the underworld from beneath the arse of Hades, can chain the gods to the pillars of their own pantheons, can wrest the sun from the bleeding horizon I am sure, but she is a coward. How dare she belittle me.

With more trembling than self-righteousness, I picked myself up from the vestiges of our jest at a tryst and followed the narrow path back to camp. Once I broke through the denser foliage, I could see a roaring fire being stoked ever higher by a brooding warrior. The firelight threw strange shadows onto Xena's face, making it appear gaunt, hollow and severe. She glanced up before I even moved into the light. A few steps later and I am standing opposite her, the pit between us. We are silent, but not thoughtful. I have no coherence whatsoever. Suddenly, I begin to cry.

And now I am no self-righteousness, only trembling. My lips, my legs, my hands. I crumble into myself and Xena moves quicker than wind to catch me before I smell the earth. And I cling to her, my face pressed hard against her breastplate and bracers, like I was clinging to my own life. But I felt no comfort; I grasped at this like it was Death itself clutching me close. I feared the inevitable.

Xena makes shushing noises, threads her fingers through my hair. Her frame is bent, shoulders at an awkward angle, head downcast looking over my shoulder; my feet barely touch the ground, I am weightless.

"I'm sorry," she whispers.

"I don't care," I reply. She releases me; I am returned to earth. And then she looks at me, and I know that she is actually seeing me, perhaps for the first time. I know there will be many more moments such as this in many more lifetimes where our souls recognize each other once again. It will be a pattern that will repeat itself through time: Me. Her. Her and I. Us.

And I know now, that I can say what I have wanted to be saying for my entire life.

"Xena, I don't care. I'm not scared of you anymore. You don't scare me. Because I recognize you, I know your darknesses and I know your brightest light. And in neither am I lost. In neither am I afraid or paralyzed. My darkness recognizes yours: our wars, our deaths, our sins, our losses, our _grave _mistakes, the blood on our hands... But the important thing, and I want you to listen to me when I say this-". Her eyes find my lips.

"The important thing is that we share a light. Sometimes it's shining so bright I can barely see, other times it feels distant and dim, but I know it's always there. And Xena, that light we share, it's love. I love you from the very smithy of my soul, a place where it is cast in the metal of Hephaestus and offered up like a sacrifice every moment I draw breath. My love is not that of a sister, or of a traveling companion, or even that of a trusted friend. My love is the sheep in the wolf's teeth, a trumpeter atop the mountains of the heavens, my executioner and my saviour. Without you, I will die."

And suddenly her lips are on mine and I can taste the salt of tears, the richness of life itself pouring from her into me. I am filled to the brim and overflow, and we are wrapped in the moonlight, and the dappled shadows of tree canopies, the warmth of the fire growing hotter, the briskness of the air growing colder, her arms around me, our skin, her lips, the tip of her nose pressed to my cheek, her tongue, our tongues, her hands on my skin, the contours of her breasts and mind trapped mercilessly, her abdomen and mine, her thigh on my hip. We are melding together, becoming a new shape, and barely distinguishable. I wondered for a fleeting moment what we ever had to fear. But all fear is that of loss. And we did lose something; it was a death that we both allowed only for a rebirth. Me. Her. Her and I. Us.


End file.
